The Family Across the Street by Nicole Trope

27

I feel my eyes growing heavy, my body slipping as though I’m falling, and I jerk myself awake, lifting the gun in case they were thinking about trying anything.

I sit up straighter and then I get up and walk around a bit, watching them, trying to generate a little more energy. Her wrist is grotesquely swollen and bright red. I notice for the first time how pale her face is, how she keeps biting down on her lip. I think she must be in a lot of pain. Somewhere inside me, I feel something twisting, something churning – maybe it’s guilt. Is it guilt? My arms are heavy holding this gun; my body wants to sink to the floor. The walking isn’t helping and I drop down into the chair again. I could leave now, just get up and leave. Start over somewhere else, maybe try to find another woman to love me the way I deserve to be loved. I think about leaving this house, walking out into the stifling heat and finding my way to a main road. I imagine holding my thumb out, getting a lift to the ocean where there would be a breeze coming off the water because there is always a breeze. I could wade into the sea where it would be cool and quiet and it wouldn’t matter that I have no one who loves me. I could walk out until the water covered my head and then I would be alone in the floating space and it would feel better.

I am so tired, so incredibly tired. I put my hands against my eyes, the gun hurting my temple. I shove it into my waistband and rub my eyes, rub them hard so black dots appear. I need to get rid of this fuzzy exhaustion. I have to think clearly now.

Taking a deep breath, I pull my hands away from my face. And she’s standing there, holding a pair of scissors above me, small blue-handled scissors. She holds them high up and I can see that she wants to hurt me but at the same time she doesn’t want to hurt me. She has never caused anyone physical pain. But she’s pretty good at mental torture. I want to laugh at her silly attempt to stop me. Me! I have a gun. I’m bigger than her and yet she thinks she can do this. And I am no longer tired. I’m furious at her stupidity and at her tiny, stupid moment of hesitation.

‘This has to stop,’ she says and she brings the scissors down, going for my face, but I’m too quick for her. I leap up and grab her hand, pull the scissors away and chuck them across the room, and then I backhand her hard, as hard as I can. I feel the power in my hand as it connects with her face and I could roar with fury. I cannot deny how good it feels.

Sophie screams. She opens her mouth and screams loud and long.

I put my hands over my ears because the scream has been waiting inside her all day. I know it’s the scream of a terrified child. It fills the air and tears at my eardrums.

She lies there, still. I think I may have killed her, but then she moves and rolls on her side.

‘Sophie, stop,’ she commands and the little girl closes her mouth. Her voice is thick with pain but still trying for calm.

The room is silent. George is watching me, his fists clenched. Sophie is huddled on the sofa and she is on the floor, trying to get up without hurting her wrist. I go over to her and extend a hand. ‘Let me help you.’ I would like to touch her kindly, just one more time. I want to help her as she struggles and there is something inside me that regrets hurting her.

‘Get away from me,’ she spits. ‘Just get away from us and get out of here.’

She’s angry with me but it wasn’t my fault. I watch her, sensing the shift in her, the change. She’s been trying to appease me all day, but now she’s finished doing that. I remember this about her as I watch her struggle to get off the floor. She tries and tries but she reaches a point where she’s done. I can see she’s reached that point.

She’s the one who attacked me. It isn’t my fault that we’re here. It’s because of her, because of decisions that she made, and now she thinks she gets to be angry at me. ‘I don’t think so,’ I mutter.

She climbs back onto the sofa, slowly, painfully, her breathing heavy and her face twisting with the pain. They all slump together in a heap, pure hatred evident on all their faces. Even her. The kids’ faces are dirty, grimy with chocolate and food and sweat. She has blood dribbled onto her white T-shirt and large sweat patches under her arms. I can smell myself and it’s not nice. We are an unpleasant bunch to look at, to breathe in, but we will not be here much longer. They will not be here much longer.

I never thought I would see hatred on her face. Anger and frustration, yes, but not actual hatred. I never thought she would feel the way about me that I have come to feel about her. I don’t like it. My legs feel heavy, the weight of my sadness too much for them.

I never wanted her to hate me. I only ever wanted her to love me for who I was and not who she thought I could be.

The three of them look drained of energy. But they’re still willing to fight. That’s fine because they have no idea how far I’m willing to go.

I’m also tired now. I would like to rest, to sleep, but in order to do that I have to be done with this. There is no way out except the only way I imagined this would end.

‘Be a shark, son,’ my father said and so that’s what I will be.

I nod my head as though he is watching me. I understand what I need to do now. I start to count. I count down from one hundred in my head, slowly, carefully, knowing that when I get to one, this will all be over.